! 640 
G674 



IRE LETTERS 
r&OM BILLY 

By the Auihor of 
"A SUNNY SUBALTERN" 





Class 

Book 

Copyright N°. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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-■>'g^y, ^t'i< ■■• 

MORE LETTERS 
FROM BILLY 

BY THE AUTHOR OF "A SUNNY SUBALTERN: 
BILLY'S LETTERS FROM FLANDERS" 




NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



T&> 



COPYRIGHT, 19 1 7, 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



NOV 12 1917 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



©CI.A479051 



DEDICATED TO MY DEAR SISTERS 

ELSIE and ISABEL 



PREFACE 

A kind and appreciative public is responsi- 
ble for the publication of "More Letters from 
Billy." 

May I take this opportunity of thanking the 
readers of "A Sunny Subaltern" for their very 
gratifying interest in Billy's welfare, as evi- 
denced by the numerous inquiries which have 
reached me from far and near. 

If these further letters from Billy may, in 
however small a degree, succeed in amusing the 
hours of relaxation or relieving those of languour, 
pain and anxiety in these strenuous, stirring, 
saddening times, the warmest wish of my heart 
will have been fulfilled. 

"Billy's Mother." 



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More Letters from Billy 



2nd London General, 
SL Marks College, 
Chelsea, London. 
Dear Mother, — 

Just a few lines to tell you I'm coming 
along pretty well. I was hit in the leg 
with shrapnel, and knocked unconscious 
with shell concussion. At present after 
two weeks I am some better, but still 
very weak and my memory is very nearly 
gone — I can only recollect things with great 
difficulty and my mind seems to be a blank 
as to what happened for many days after. 
I have constant pain in my head and down 
my spine and my left arm is partially para- 
lysed, but they tell me I'll be jake again 

[»] 



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sometime. When I get out of hospital I 
will have to be passed upon by a Medical 
Board and be given leave of absence — some- 
times it is three months. I don't think I 
should afford to go home to Canada — how- 
ever, will see what you think, and if I cable 
you, reply C/o Bank of Montreal here and 
I'll get it. I'll write more again possibly 
to-morrow. Love to all, including yourself 
most. Billy. 

Manor House. 
My Dear Mother, — 

As you will see I've changed my address 
— I was boarded and given five weeks leave 
from July 12th, which is not much, but bet- 
ter than less, of course. So that means no 
trip to Canada. 

Lady D. looked up this place for me and 
it is a wonderful spot. My hostess is Lady 
and some noise over here — a delight- 
ful old lady, who since my arrival this 
morning has hovered over me like a shadow. 

[12] 



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She asks me to say that although she does 
not know you she is pleased to look after me 
and will write you later on. 

I will write and tell you all about the 
place when I've had a better chance — I 
came in a hurry, was sort of hustled off on 
a few hours notice by those bustling, busy 
women at the Canadian Red Cross. I had 
to hurry up and buy clothes and all man- 
ner of things, as nearly all my kit has been 
lost "Somewhere." Just what my plans are 
from here I cannot say, but I will stay here 
four weeks. It's quiet and a beautiful old 
house, set in a garden that is wonderful — 
more anon. 

I have a valet of "me own," just like T. 
Tembarom, and there's a Rolls Royce at my 
disposal — a menu for meals, lunch anyway 
to-day, which consisted of macaroni, lamb 
chops, peas, and new potatoes, gathered at 
dawn, artichokes like Aunty likes, fresh 
raspberry tart, clutch cream one didn't need 
to whip and a glass of port seventy five years 

[13] 



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old, which I was compelled to drink to 
"give you blood, my dear." That's a fair 
start, Eh? However I feel better already 
and am going to do nothing but loaf and 
write, so look for long screeds. 

I don't think there is anything else, my 
dear, to tell you; I'm doing as well as can 
be expected, and the rest and quiet is what 
I need, so perhaps I may be well when my 
leave is up. I will write you more fully 
about everything — there's really nothing 
more now, so good-bye with love in heaps, 

Billy. 



Manor House. 
My Dear Mother, — 

I cannot for the life of me understand 
how or why I do not receive any mail from 
you. I've only had one letter since the mid- 
dle of May and that was to the Hospital, 
dated June 28th, I think. I feel certain that 
you've written oftener than that, but I 

[14] 



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surely cannot get any trace of them. And 
it's very weary waiting, I assure you. For 
after all, that's the only tie I have to Can- 
ada — letters, and when they fail, one feels 
sort of isolated. 

I'm quite happy here, but still it's not 
just like home. There's a certain restraint, 
altho' the dear good soul is as kind as can 
be, but her manners and customs are Eng- 
lish and of the real aristocracy. Her niece 
is Lady in Waiting to the Queen, and she 
is a sister to Lady , and all her visi- 
tors are Sirs, etc., and you're continually 
forgetting whether to say "Good day, my 
Lord, or How is your Ladyship this morn- 
ing?" and crashing out with "Good morn- 
ing, Mrs. Jones, and did you rest amicably 
with your pillow?" 

Then, as I told you, there is a valet for 
me. He is one of those intimate devils who 
took my meagre belongings and unpacked 
them — a pair of shoes, some soiled collars 
and a dirty khaki shirt. I've somehow never 

[15] 



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forgiven him for that. Some way my bed- 
room has always been my own, but now I 
feel uncertain whether I should ask him if 
I may come in or not. I went up this morn- 
ing and he actually wasn't there. It was 
so nice for a minute — for he heard me, al- 
though I gumshoed around I'm sure — and 
appeared. 

He absolutely haunts that spot — if one 
takes out a cigarette before the case is closed 
he is there with a lighted match, and I do 
so love to light my own cigarettes. I think 
I'll ask him to let me blow out the match 
one of these times. Of course, I suppose 
it's very jake, but when one is used to hus- 
tling around for oneself it's really perturb- 
ing to have some one sort of derrick an un- 
dershirt on you. But I fooled him yester- 
day morning when he came in to waken me. 
I said "Good morning, Smith — I feel quite 
tired this morning and think I'll sleep for a 
while. I don't want any breakfast." This in 
my best patrician tone. "Very good, Sir, at 
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what time shall I have the bawth?" I felt 
like saying — Go to Hell — but heroically re- 
frained, said "about u.oo" and rolled over. 
As soon as I felt he was downstairs I lit 
a cigarette and stealthily arose. Ah ! what a 
treat. In absolute peace and solitude I 
dressed and shaved, dispensing for the nonce 
with the "bawth." I really felt quite elated 
at my cleverness. When I went for my 
boots I found both pairs were out, so had 
to ring. His face was worth the price of 
admission alone when he saw me all dressed 
up but coat and shoes. "But, Sir, you should 
have rung, Sir," as though the Germans 
had reached London, and I never smiled as 
I said, — serenely I hope, "Oh! I changed 
my mind; I'll be down to breakfast." I 
couldn't admit I had really defeated him 
for fear he should swoon. 

Well, then, there's the Butler, a solemn 
visaged, heavy-jowled person with white 
hair, silent pedal extremities, a cultivated 
accent, which is delightful, largely because 

[17] 



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of the "aitches" which nimbly leave one 
word to appear on another. He is a real 
mean party I'm sure, and I know watches 
me with expectant hope that I shall choose 
the wrong fork for the salad, thereby caus- 
ing him great glee. But to see him work 
is a revelation. I'll bet if he saw a "hasher" 
in a quick lunch counter pick up eighteen 
plates, eleven saucers with a platoon of 
knives, forks and spoons, to say nothing of 
a setting of cups and clatter off, he would 
certainly have a hemorrhage of green paint. 
One dish at a time for him, with unction, 
and gravity, just as if it were a religious 
ceremony, the passing of a silver vegetable 
dish of green peas. I'll bet the vestal vir- 
gins of Rome were no more careful with 
the sacred fuel. 

Lady was obliged to go away on 

Red Cross work the other day and I was 
left alone. I roamed the garden till lunch 
and then, ah then! I would fain visualise 
for you the scene, but I fear me I fail. 
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DRAMATIS PERSONAE 

The Butler 

me 

ACT I 

Scene I. A Library, Door centre, Fire- 
place right, French window left opening 
onto a green velvet lawn banked by 
kaleidoscopic beds of flowers stretching 
into green hills, dolce far niente. With- 
out, the sonorous roll of a gorgeous gong 
(Fve seen it and know). 

THE BUTLER (entering door c) (with 
unction) : "Luncheon is served, sir." 

me (Meekly and with great feeling) : 
"Very well." 

Scene II. A Dining Room, the largest in 
history, so large one loses their way in 
finding a township of glistening white 

[19] 



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tablecloth divided into sections and dotted 
with silver. The room is lined with huge 
affairs made of mahogany and between 
silver and cut glass is intended to give the 
effect of the crystal room in Tiffany's. 
The poor hero falteringly takes his place, 
the only one, at the L., thereby accentuat- 
ing the expanse of white linen. 

The Butler 

me 
The Butler 

me 
The Butler 

me 
The Butler 

me 
The Butler 

me 
The Butler 

me 
The Butler 

me 
The Butler 

me 

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N. B. The Management desire to point 
out to patrons the extreme brilliancy of the 
dialogue in this scene. Its freshness, its 
crisp effervescence, coupled with its spark- 
ling wit, and scintillating epigram, stamp it 
as one of the premier pieces of dramatic 
writing extant. 

Curtain 

But, my dear, can you imagine me being 
served to a six-course luncheon alone and 
not one word was said? If you took a 
mouthful of water, the faithful automaton 
filled the glass again, and when you took 
the last bite of any dish, as silently as those 
Arabs of Longfellow's, that dish stole or 
was stolen away. My God, I felt like 
screaming once or twice. 

I am feeling much better, although my 
leg still drags, particularly when I am tired. 
If I walk far, I get quite weak and really 
have no desire to bestir myself at all. I 
putter around the garden, pull a weed here 

[21] 



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and there, but don't accomplish very much. 
However, I feel that this is the place for 
me, and am certain ere my leave is up, I'll 
be better — at least able for light duty. 

You know, my dear, my memory is really 
shocking, and I can't remember for the life 
of me whether I sent you that cheque in the 
last letter or not. I have an empty stub 
with no entry on it, so cannot be sure. How- 
ever, here is one now. The reason for the 
need of any money was when I arrived in 
London I had a pair of pyjamas and that 
was all I could wear. My uniform was 
ripped to pieces, as well as my clothes, and 
the boots I'd worn had been lost in the 
shuffle. I waited as long as I could, hoping 
my kit would be sent from France, but it 
never came — in fact, has not arrived yet, 
so I had to purchase a complete new outfit 
— one uniform, underwear, shirts, collars, 
ties, boots, socks, cap, etc., and the cost was 
damnable. I didn't buy anything I could 
help — but three pairs of socks, two shirts, 

[22] 



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two suits of underwear and one pair of 
boots, and one cap. These, with the other 
things, ran away with a vast amount of 
money, and when I got leave I was obliged 
to buy a suit of mufti, that is civilian clothes, 
and attendant accessories, as we are sup- 
posed to take our leave in them. I only got 
what I really needed, but between one thing 
and another, it made £25 look very small 
indeed, and as I could not come down here 
without money, felt I had to draw. How- 
ever, I've put in a claim for lost kit and 
will get back, I guess, £15 of it anyway, 
maybe more. 

Well, my dear, I must close, as tea is 
about to be served. 

Give my love to all and do write soon; 
address me care Bank of Montreal, 9 
Waterloo Place, London, S. W. 
Heaps of Love, 

Billy. 



[23] 



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Manor House. 
My dear Mother, — 

I have just come back after a trip to 
London in search of mail, lost kit, etc., and 
in the former case have done very well. I 
found awaiting me in the Record Office 
about forty letters from every one I ever 
heard of, including three from yourself, 
dated June 8th, 15th and 26th, all, of course, 
before you had received my note. 

Well, my dear, I was glad that you were 
not too worried, and that my cable from 
Boulogne allayed any anxiety you may have 
had. I cannot imagine just how every one 
wrote me — it seems marvellous, and for the 
publicity I received, as you say, I cannot 
understand that either, or how they got my 
address changed from 436. That was the 
reason I cabled there, because I figured the 
word would go there, anyway. I really 
don't remember cabling, but always on my 
person was a 20-f ranc note with instructions 



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to cable there, so I guess subconsciously I 
had some one do it. 

Well, my dear, as you will see, I am still 

with Lady , and while I had the little 

two-days' trip to London, I really like the 
country. I am getting better quickly, and 
I suppose in ten days will have to go back 
to Shorncliffe and then on to France, after 
a time. They are giving no long leave 
nowadays, and hustling chaps back as quick- 
ly as possible. It is rumoured that Canadi- 
ans are to be taken down to the Somme for 
the push now on, and I fear there will be 
many casualties before they change the drive 
to some other sector. Pleasant thoughts, 
eh? 

Of course, I don't really think I'm fit 
enough to go back yet, although I'm much 
better — my leg doesn't drag now unless I'm 
very tired, although it is rather slow and 
stiff, and I still have violent headaches. If 
I have the least excitement, away she goes 
and pounds like a trip-hammer. Also my 



MORE LETTERS FROM BILLY 



"sleepery" is on the blink — I get only about 
two hours a night, and it never seems to 
improve very much. I have such restless 
nights — all nightmare and dreams — so one 
doesn't feel very fresh in the morning. 
However, I guess everything will turn out 
O. K., but I must say candidly, I do not feel 
like facing the music at once. 

I am sending you some post-cards of one 
of the most famous castles in England, sit- 
uated near here, and we motored over to 
see it one day last week. It dates back to 
Henry VII's time, and was a Royalist 
stronghold in the time of Cromwell. It is, 
indeed, a wonderful old place, with secret 
passages and dungeons, etc. It is the home 

of the Marquis of N , and I simply 

revelled there all one afternoon from dun- 
geon to keep, smelling the musty smells, 
peering into this room, climbing a dim, 
steep stair, only to find I had just come from 
the room a moment before by one of the de- 
vious turns. I shall never forget that after- 

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noon, and as we chugged back in the evening 
sun I could not pen for you the varied 
thoughts that came and went 

Well, my dear, I really think I must close 
— I have no more news, anyway, and I want 
to try and write another letter or two to 
catch the Canadian mail. Love to all, with 
heaps for yourself. 

Believe me, your son, who candidly 
wishes he were back home — not patriotic, 
but human. 

Billy. 

Dear Mother- 
Just received your letter of Sept. 2nd 
and apparently there are some in between 
somewhere, as certain things do not con- 
nect up properly. 

I received a parcel of sox from A. S. 
yesterday, and two pairs from you with 
some hankies — thanks very much. I have 
several pairs in good shape now, so please 
do not send any more for a time. 

[27] 



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I expect to leave this place in a few days, 
possibly the ist of the month. I am a lot 
better, and may be sent back to the front 
soon. God wot I am not mad about it, but 
I suppose it has to be, so we'll stick to it. 
However, my leg is better, also my heart, 
and my general health improved, so I trust 
I'll be all right. G. is in this hospital and 
also B. — both our officers — there are only 
about four of the original quota with the 
battalion now — all the rest killed or 
wounded. 

I am getting fearfully fed up, as they say 
here, with hospital and London, and will 
be glad to get out to camp life again. It 
surely is much healthier, and I feel better, 
although France, as I've said before, is none 
too like a health resort. 

I saw the Zeppelin fall the other night, 
and it looked a good sight, I can tell you. 
A lurid flame in the black amid the bright 
spots in the clouds of hundreds of concen- 
trated searchlights, with the roar of the anti- 

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aircraft guns. It certainly raised a cheer 
from the thousands who throng the streets 
when a Zepp attack warning is given. 
Thousands walk about till the raid has sub- 
sided, listening to the alternate whirr of 
the Zepps in between the boom of the guns. 
All the searchlights sweep the sky till they 
pick up the machine, then concentrate on 
it. It resembles nothing so much as a silver 
cigar, despite the fact that it is over six 
hundred feet long. One they brought down 
is intact, almost ready to go up again, I 
hear. I hope they use it and that it straafes 
old Fritz properly. 

Well, dear, as I say, I hope to be out in 

a few days, and will likely go with the 

Battalion, Shorncliffe, but address mail as 
usual to the Record Office, C. E. F. No. 3, 
Holborn St., London. 

Love to all, and write soon. 

Billy. 



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Once more, 
Somewhere. 
My Dear Mother, — 

As you will see, I'm back again with the 
Battalion. We arrived this morning, after 
a long train journey, and expect to go up 
to the support line to-night. We are in a 
very quiet part of the line, I understand, 
and the surroundings don't seem too bad. 

From what I can gather, there does not 
seem to be much chance of promotion here, 
even with all the senior casualties, as they 
imported another Commanding Officer, 
who is bringing in men he knows, and I 
figure that things are not going to be any 
better than they were before. 

Well, my dear, there isn't very much to 
tell, as I've had no chance to judge condi- 
tions — however, I'm feeling fairly fit, and 
will doubtless keep on doing so until I en- 
deavour to stop a shell in motion, a proceed- 
ing in which no human has so far been 
really successful. 

[30] 



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I sent you a picture post-card the other 
day, and hope you received same O. K. 

By the way, my dear, you will doubtless 
have noticed how many men are missing 
nowadays. Well, I can only say if you ever 
get word that I'm missing, just make up 
your mind I'm gone. I don't want to cause 
any anxiety, but from a knowledge of con- 
ditions, I think you need not hope against 
hope, as usually one is never found, and I 
realise it only prolongs the agony if one 
is waiting for the word that never comes. 
So, my dear, just forget about me if you 
ever get that word. In any event, if I do 
get bumped off, you'll be better off than 
now. That's speaking, of course, from a 
mercenary standpoint, otherwise you'll un- 
derstand I've only tried to do my bit. I 
haven't any M.C. or V.C., and don't ever 
expect one, but when you see the number 
of people in England with three and four 
of their family gone and also nearly every 
woman in France in mourning, you'll un- 

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derstand one life more or less is not even 
an atom in this present maelstrom. 

Now, my dear, just address me c/o Bat- 
talion, C.E.F., France; leave brigade, etc., 
off; also send me socks again — make some 
with extra long feet so that I can wear 
them over another pair without being tight. 

Write often, and if I'm wounded again 
address mail c/o Record Office, London. 
Heaps of love, 

Billy. 



In the Field (of mud). 
Dear Mother, — 

Your letter of Oct. 4th just to hand. I 
am at a loss to understand where my letters 
can have got to — I have written at least 
once every eight days, usually in time to 
catch a mail, that is, from England, and 
certainly all the time I was in hospital. Of 
course, mail is being closely censored now 
and God only knows what the powers who 

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open the mail bags do with the letters, al- 
though I really believe that they can't take 
any great personal interest in them, so per- 
haps they heave them into a forgotten pile 
and in due course one may get them — in any 
event, it is very annoying both ways. 

As you will know from my last letter, I'm 
back with the Battalion again, and the Hun 
right here is our least worry. He is a quiet, 
unobtrusive, war-wearied Bosche, who 
holds the line opposite us and apparently is 
content to remain so. He heaves over prac- 
tically no shells, save a number of trench 
mortar bombs, and his most detestable 
minenwarfers, or minnies. These are not, 
of course, what you could call life-saving 
objects, but they travel very slowly, and 
one can see them coming quite distinctly, 
so learns to dodge them with great speed 
and precision. They make a hole about 
five feet deep and five by nine feet wide, so 
if they hit you, it's good-bye, boys! 

However, as I say, he, the Bosche, is our 

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least worry, but we have one of giant pro- 
portions. By the way, it seems to be one of 
a soldier's necessities — if it isn't one thing, 
it's another. This time it is mud — and 
what mud — genuine, thick, gluey mud, 
with excellent body and bouquet — Phew! I 
Some bouquet. Also, I may add, that there's 
no lack of it. You see, it has rained inces- 
santly for aeons, it seems, and I give you 
my word, the trenches actually dissolved 
before my sceptical eyes, until now they are 
really "in solution," as a chemist would say. 
I can assure you that never in my wildest 
dreams did I picture such a state as we are 
in — I'm sure you would never recognise 
me should you behold me now. I'm caked 
in mud, juicy and wet to the hips, while 
above are liberal applications, until I re- 
semble a bride's first effort at a half-iced 
caramel cake. C'est la vie! The trenches 
are a mellow (see Webster for definition) 
mass, nowhere shallower than knee deep, 
ranging from that to your hips. Honest to 

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God, that's right. If it was thin, con- 
sommey-like stuff, one would not care, but 
it is about the consistency of good, long- 
boiled porridge, and if memory serves me 
aright, Le Page — he of glue fame — was a 
Frenchman, but he surely overlooked a bet 
when he didn't patent this muck. I was 
wading through it hip deep this evening — 
or rather last — and was absolutely mired. 
I could move neither way and the N. C. O. 
with me was in the same fix. Just as we 
wrenched and tugged we heard the peculiar 
"swish — swish — swish" which one of Fritz's 
rifle grenades makes, and I must admit 
rather timorously awaited the outcome. 
She fell pretty close, going well into the 
mixture and splashing my left optic with a 
juicy cupful as she detonated. I had laugh- 
ingly remarked to the Corporal that we 
needed a derrick to get out and that was 
the instrument — I mean the grenade. The 
mud wasn't nearly as bad as I thought, and 
I sloshed along as fast — well, if there had 

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been a rabbit around I'd have said, "Get 
out of the way and let some one run who 
can," for Fritz has no sentiment, and his 
projectiles no discrimination. 

Albeit after dragging through a stretch 
of this stuff every half hour for a period of 
time, that always seems interminable, I de- 
cided to venture overland, taking a chance 
on machine guns, etc. Well, I did, and 
evidently failed to observe the best lessons 
as laid down in "Infantry Training," for a 
machine gun opened fire, whistling very 
close, so I deduced I was on the sky line. 
I may add by this time I was even wetter 
and muddier than I had been for the four 
previous days, also chilled to the marrow. 
Of course, I flopped into a shell hole com- 
fortably filled with an admixture resem- 
bling the Scotch broth one pays for on the 
C. P. R. diner, while a few yards distant 
the bullets went Phut-Phut. Just then I 
heard the "swish — swish" anthem again, 
and I really believe I breathed a prayer 

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that a chunk of the grenade would hit me 
below the water line — I mean legs, so that 
I could holler for help and have some 
stretcher "bears" pry me out. Needless to 
say, they didn't, so I'm still left here in 
misery. By taking deep soundings and 
heaving the anchor, I was able to navigate 
to Company Headquarters. 

I am sitting here now in a nice, deep hole, 
awaiting "Stand to," so thought I'd employ 
my time in writing you. By the way, I 
wish occasionally you would send the little 
girlie a copy of my letters — I don't write 
her just the same kind of stuff, you under- 
stand that, and it is rather a bore writing 
the same thing twice — also I wish you 
would send me an indelible pencil, say, 
once a month — they are very difficult to 
get here, or even in England. 

As I told you, we have pretty deep dug- 
outs, and one can feel as well as hear the 
rumble of big guns from the distance — a 
long intermittent rumble, which I can best 

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describe as being in a basement of one of 
those $10 down and $10 monthly frame 
houses, while the wife moves the piano in 
fall house-cleaning time. Anyway, I'm 
thankful it is fairly quiet here. 

Yes, Casey got it, so I saw. He also won 
in addition to his wooden cross, a military 
one and his commission. The last night I 
saw him was the night his regiment relieved 
us just before the June show, and he was 
talking to Billy G., who, by the way, you 
know is home now. Casey surely was a 
good soldier, and you might convey to his 
wife my condolences. 

Our own Colonel, too, was killed — we 
were all sorry, for he was a ripping good 
Commanding Officer. 

Will be going out some time soon for 
one of these alleged rests, and will luxuriate 
in a bath and some clean underwear — this 
last will be grand, as I fear me I've man- 
aged to hatch out an extra large setting of 
wee beasties — in fact, I feel certain that no 

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one else can have any — I must have them 
all. This is only the second time, so I can't 
really complain. Between them and the 
mud, I'm more convinced than ever that as 
a winter resort, France is a distinct failure. 
I had a letter from Aunt B. to-day, for my 
birthday — it contained a V, and I am writ- 
ing to thank her for it when we get out. It's 
very thoughtful, but I don't really need 
money — cakes are always jake. Well, my 
dear, I've run up a terrible screed and the 
candle runs down — in any event, it's time 
to waken two wet and snoring "Subs" who 
will drowsily proceed, rum jar in hand, to 
the matitunal devotions of the army "Stand 
to." I'll say good morning, my dear- 
heaps of love. Billy. 



Somewhere in France. 
My Dear Mother- 
It is indeed curious how one forgets 
where familiar lines originated — I say this 

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because I've been racking my brain in an 
endeavour to remember from whence comes 
the phrase, "Cleanliness is next to Godli- 
ness." I'm not sure whether it is the Bible, 
Shakespeare or Robert W. Chambers, but 
I don't suppose it makes any tremendous 
difference. 

Howbeit, the phrase is particularly im- 
pressive just at the moment, for I've recently 
— in fact, ten minutes ago, marched back 
with the Company from that indescribable 
pleasure, a bath. 

I don't suppose that prior to this experi- 
ence in the war zone I ever properly un- 
derstood or appreciated the meaning of a 
bath. I cannot remember, but I fully ex- 
pect as a youngster I had the youthful aver- 
sion to having my ears scrubbed or my 
hands washed. That aversion to H 2 
when I look at it now seems impossible, for 
I can assure you that a tin tub half filled 
with hot water is one of the most precious 
luxuries I can think of out here. In the 

[40] 



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ordinary course of one's existence a bath 
ranks with beds and meals and light and 
heat, so that one grows accustomed to it — 
takes it for granted — but when one cogitates 
on the fact that you manage a bath, say, 
once every two weeks, it assumes a different 
aspect. It is something you look forward 
to, and back at, and is as important as a 
Sunday School picnic to a boy of ten. 

You will readily understand that after, 
say, twelve days of filth and slush, of fecun- 
dence and slime, when your clothes are 
coated with a sticky veneer, which perco- 
lates through in spots, and that before meals 
you use a knife to scrape the ooze from be- 
tween your fingers, a bath is somewhat of 
a glorified affair. 

You march a company of men to a Divi- 
sional Bath, none too clean, none too sweet 
smelling. They enter a few at a time — 
thrown is dirty underwear, sox, etc., and 
each man given a towel. They pass through, 
coming out fresh and clean, with the aroma 

[41] 



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of carbolic soap filling the immediate at- 
mosphere. That's the outward change, the 
visible difference, but beneath the mud- 
stained khaki there are different men. They 
look the same, except perhaps the face is 
shinier than before, but the whole physical 
being has been changed — recharged, as it 
were. It is quite a privilege, in a sense, for 
an officer to stand as I stood to-day in an old 
convent and watch eighty-odd men re-made, 
temporarily, at least. 

Outside it was cold, windy, drear; inside, 
steamy, smelly, warm. On the wall of the 
large room, which had been fitted up with 
pipes and showers, there hung a life-size 
crucifix, with the figure of The Christ 
thereon. Above the head was the familiar 
J. N. R. J. that adorns them all — large or 
small. From a dozen different vents in the 
piping rained down the water, from which 
rose clouds of steam, now and again making 
the figure on the wall indistinct. 

On the stone flagging, hopped and 

[42] 



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jumped a section or two of the British army, 
washing away the accumulation of a fort- 
night's mud and perspiration. They lath- 
ered their bodies and hair, ducked under 
the streaming showers, with screwed-up 
faces, paddled ankle deep in soapy water, 
slapped one another in sheer delight, 
laughed, shouted or cursed as they played 
about with dripping heads and shiny bodies, 
all totally oblivious to the fact that once 
the room was a sacred spot. 

Outside they came with new disinfected 
clothing, every one puffing a cigarette — a 
cigarette that was in queer contrast to the 
shiny faces, which resembled the colour of 
polished oak. The Sergeant Major called 
"Fall in," and off we marched along the 
road with swinging step — the air perme- 
ated, as I say, with a strong antiseptic smell 
— and so to billets. 

But that hour has made different beings. 
In place of sticky, vermin-ridden under- 
clothing, now they wear clean, sweet gar- 

[43] 



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ments. The skin tingles with a pleasura- 
ble sensation, the slight irritable itchiness 
disappears — one feels refreshed, revivified, 
in fact, ready for anything. 

I don't know whose brain is responsible 
for the first baths in France, but if ever any 
one deserved a 'lasting memorial, it is that 
person. Should any one wish to subscribe 
anything to a "Tubs for Tommies" Fund, 
I can assure you it is a worthy cause. 

I don't know whether I've pictured for 
you a bath day or not, but the picture I 
call up is lithe, steaming bodies in unstud- 
ied attitudes, gaunt, nude forms, with rip- 
pling muscles and unrestrained movements, 
bronzed faces and arms in free, unstudied 
gestures, while from out the white haze the 
Crucifix, symbolical of all that our era is 
founded on, looked down. So you'll see 
why I prefaced this with "Cleanliness is 
next to Godliness." 

Love to all, and write soon. 

Billy. 

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Somewhere. 
My Dear Mother, — 

I just received a letter from you evident- 
ly intended for Aunt Bella — however, as 
it gives me a lot of news, I can't complain. 

I really haven't much news to tell you. 
Still plugging away in the muck. I was 
"out" after what seemed an interminable 
time for a day in order to get a bath and 
some clean underwear, as well as rid myself 
of a small-sized army of wee beasties who 
enjoyed themselves alternately in feeding 
and racing, varied by a battalion at a time 
digging themselves in. These, together with 
what we now consider the premier element, 
mud, cause us most of our troubles. 

When I was out I managed to get hold of 
a few Xmas cards in a Y. M. C. A. hut, 
and have sent them to every one I could 
remember. I'm glad to learn that Lady M. 
liked the letters. 

I am enclosing a cheque for two guineas, 
and I want you to get something for your- 

[45] 



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self for Christmas, also for Aunt B. I don't 
know what to do about the little girl, but 
will figure something out. There's no one 
else I care to remember tangibly or yet can 
afford to. However, get something useful 
— no junk — and something for the Fergies. 
God bless 'em! You'll understand that any 
real present is out of the question, for the 
only things one procures in ruined French 
villages are Biere or du Pain or Ruins, and 
I'm sure none of those are much use as 
reminders of Christmas. 
3 a.m. 
Mud to the hips while above wet as only 
the rain of this land can wet. The reason? 
Primarily, because I've just come in from 
a funeral. And what a funeral! To-night, 
or rather this morning, we laid away all 
that was mortal of Mac, the Tightwad. I 
suppose that sounds irreverent to you, but 
that's the only sobriquet we knew him by, 
Tightwad. Of him I'll tell you some time 
again. 

[46] 



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Now, I just want to put into a pencil 
pastel for you, a front-line funeral. 

No pageantry, no pomp, no sonorous 
drum, no solemn note of Chopin's Marche 
Funebre, but many a sound, the impression 
of which will linger, replaced the brass or 
drum, and I feel sure that by the yawning 
grave we bared our heads with as much 
piety and reverence as we would, had it 
been in vaulted nave or still, stained-glass 
chapel. 

Of course, here, life is cheap, and we 
joke of death. It was only last night I re- 
marked to the fellows in the Company mess 
how shocked people at home would be 
could they but hear us, jocularly speak of 
death. Albeit that state does exist and one 
grows callous. Perforce, one must, and it's 
only when we stand by and see a comrade, 
with all the word means, laid in a shallow 
hole, that the solemnity of the thing we 
hold so cheaply is borne home. 

So, to-night we laid away, amid a small 

[47] 



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forest of white-washed crosses, the body of 
Mac, a hero I'll write of, a comrade hard 
as steel, a friend indeed. Above, the grey, 
blue dome of God's grand Cathedral, illu- 
mined at rare intervals by another Planet of 
the Universe. Around, every sight or sound 
that is common to the front — flares, mag- 
nesium white, punctuating momentarily the 
distance, the swift sniffle and boom of 18- 
pounders, the long sigh and burst of how- 
itzers, and faintly the staccato roll of ma- 
chine guns. Here, we stand, sixteen figures, 
black against the grey. 

A little truck on a narrow-gauge railway 
rattles along, two men lift off something — 
five or six steps — it (the cold, unanswering 
clay of Mac) is laid in a four-foot hole, and 
the Padre, as we bare our heads, recites in 
the dark, the short, active-service liturgy 
for the dead. 

We know the blanket is grey and red 
wool, we've seen so many; we know that 
wrapped in it is Mac, who last night came 

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into our dugout and said blithely, "Cheero." 
A few shovelfuls of earth, the blanket is 
covered, the words cease, a whitewashed 
cross is stuck into the earth, a paper with 
name, etc., nailed thereon, to await a pio- 
neer with black paint, and the mourners 
move away. 

They move away, awhile the boughs 
sigh, the field-guns sniff, the machine-guns 
rattle; move away toward where the ghast- 
ly white flares rise, and falling, shed their 
rays to where men stand at eagle-eyed at- 
tention peering into the night, intent on 
this great business of war. 

I don't know whether the foregoing con- 
veys a picture or not, but somehow this 
morning, as I sit awaiting the dawn, words 
fail to come. We try not to let the heart 
rule the head, but I'm afraid somehow, 
right now, I miss Tightwad more than ever. 
Not because his going entails one third more 
duty for me, not because for a thousand rea- 
sons — despite all his human frailties I 

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loved him, but just — because — somehow, 
when one has lived and trusted, fought and 
fed, weighed and found true measure for 
eighteen months, the going tugs at the heart 
strings. 

I want to tell you later how he died, but 
not to-night, Mother o' Mine. 

I've looked out between the sand bag 
curtain and the chalk; day is heralded; no 
"dawn like thunder," as Kipling says, but 
just dawn, with "Stand to" and the thunder 
of artillery. 

So, good morning, 

Billy. 



2Vo. 14 General Hospital, 

Boulogne. 
My Dear Mother, — 

As I cabled you the other day, I'm at the 
above place. I cabled because it seems the 
War Office always notify the next of kin 
and sometimes names get mixed, so that a 

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"serious" wire is sent — anyway, I didn't 
want you to be worried, as there's nothing 
much wrong. 

I came down here from a Casualty Clear- 
ing Station with P. U. O. That, I expect, 
looks very formidable, but being translated 
means "Prexia unknown origin," and is the 
cognomen that our Medical Officers attach 
to the disease the soldier calls trench fever. 
It simply means that one's temperature 
mounts up to ioo or so, and of course one 
feels rather rotten with it. I had a pretty 
bad dose, otherwise I wouldn't have been 
sent to a Casualty Clearing Station. The 
morning I left I had a temperature of 103 
degrees, and a very fast pulse, so our Med- 
ical Officer evacuated me, and after a few 
days at the C. C. S., when it did not abate, 
I was shipped here. My temp, has gone 
down on a diet of milk and soda, and with 
it my weight, as also my strength; in fact, 
I'm rather teetery on my pins, but am on 

[51] 



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light diet now, which is fish and bread, and 
"doing as well as can be expected." 

As I told you, I came down from a Casu- 
alty Clearing Station, and I know you'd 
like my impressions of a hospital-train. Of 
course, I was a stretcher case, but once on 
board I sat up and took notice. You see, 
my last trip in a hospital-train is nothing 
more than a blank page in memory's vol- 
ume — in fact, I don't remember a train at 
all; therefore, I was anxious to study the 
system. To begin with, I was given a warm 
suit of pyjamas and bed sox — climbed 
aboard a stretcher and was carried into the 
car. Picture to yourself one of our bag- 
gage cars — I mean Canadian baggage cars 
— snowy white with white hospital cots, 
minus legs, in tiers of three high along each 
side; bright scarlet curtains on the long 
windows, a smell of disinfectants permeat- 
ing the atmosphere, and I think you will 
have as nearly as possible a view of a Red 
Cross Hospital Car. They reach along one 
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after the other, closely joined at the ends 
with a bellows-like affair that one finds on 
our baggage cars, and, like our coaches, of 
course, a corridor down the middle. I lay 
in my berth, and could look down the long 
aisle, with scarcely a break in it, seeing ap- 
parently endless rows of brown army 
blankets ruled off by the white lines of the 
cots — these lines punctuated, as it were, 
here and there by the V corner of a blanket 
hanging down the side. 

One is gently carried to the door, thence 
to the bunk, where the orderlies assist one 
between the blankets. We infantry men 
sometimes rail at the men behind the lines, 
the army behind the army, as it is called — 
we feel they have soft jobs, etc., but I'm 
sure no one could criticise the orderlies at 
a Casualty Clearing Station or on a Red 
Cross train after seeing them at work. 
With infinite care, as gently as if the form 
on the stretcher were made of Sevres, they 
lift and handle. Unless by a white swathed 

[53] 



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head they cannot tell at a glance whether 
you are sick or wounded, and if so how 
serious the wound, so each one receives the 
same gentle thought and care. Once in 
your berth, a grey and red garbed nurse 
comes up smiling — I often wonder if they, 
the sisters, ever cease to smile or ever grow 
cross. In my hospital experience NEVER, 
and here aboard the train they are just the 
same — quiet, suave, competent, smiling. 
Nothing is a trouble, nothing they can do 
to help you a bore — each case is looked 
after with surprising speed, here a ther- 
mometer stuck in the mouth, there a new 
bandage or dressing put on in case the mov- 
ing has started a hemorrhage; but each case 
is spoken to and the casualty card pinned 
to the pyjamas or tunic examined. 

A tiny toot-toot of the engine and, almost 
imperceptibly, the train pulls out. Once 
under way, the Medical Officer comes 
around, inquires as to the welfare, etc., and 
if anything needs special care, attends to it. 

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An orderly is always at hand, willing cheer- 
fully to get anything you want, while anon 
comes the smiling sister with cigarettes. A: 
few minutes later the long narrow aisle is 
blue with smoke, and although I walked 
nearly the whole length with a sister I 
never heard a groan nor a grumble. Some 
one has called it "The Train of Pain," but 
apart from the occasional bandage one 
might never have known that here and 
there were maimed bodies or tortured 
limbs. Everything cheery, everything 
bright as the cross painted on the outside. 
French trains move rapidly enough, but 
intermittently, so that a journey takes a long 
time by reason of waits at the stations, so 
70 miles is an eight-hour journey. Well, 
lunch time rolls along and I had visions of 
the usual glass of milk and soda I had sub- 
sisted on for some days — I wasn't disap- 
pointed, either, but had I been able to eat 
there was a bully good lunch, soup, beef, 
potatoes, peas and pudding with tea, for 

[55] 



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full-diet patients, and chicken for light diet 
ones. As I say, I got none, but there it was 
to prove once more the infinite care and 
trouble taken of the broken fighter. Grad- 
ually, as the afternoon wore on, tea was 
served, the lights came on, and I marked 
the surprising gaiety of the car I was in — 
here a muddy khaki-clad figure limped to 
the lavatory, with a laugh or a word to each 
face peeping from the blanket, or a merry 
bit of repartee, perhaps, but always if there 
was any pain it was borne like a stoic. 

So we finally pulled into a big station, a 
delay of a minute or two, then one at a time 
we were lifted into waiting ambulances. As 
an example of stoicism, the man opposite to 
me, from whom I never heard a murmur in 
eight hours, when they lifted him onto the 
stretcher said, "Easy does it; my left leg is 
gone." I never knew that beneath those 
blankets such a state existed, and from him 
there was never a word to tell. Cogitate on 
that. 

[56] 



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As you come to the queue of waiting am- 
bulances, they ask your name, and from a 
list already wired down, tell you off to a 
hospital — no fuss, no to-do, no ostentation, 
simply service — service paramount. Away 
you go, and upon arrival at the hospital are 
whisked into bed in the same methodical 
manner. Truly the symbol of the Scarlet 
Cross spells efficiency. 

Well, dear, I'm eagerly awaiting my 
mail, which will, I suppose, eventually 
reach me, for it is now nearly a month since 
I had any. I expect you'll get this about 
New Years, and where I'll be I cannot say. 
I'll leave here and go to our base in France 
and after a few days, up the line again. Re 
the publishers — they are the best judges of 
the value of the stuff, and if they are not 
willing to take a chance, don't you spend 
any money — you see, you are prejudiced, so 
don't do it under any circumstances. Un- 
derstand. 

Hope you received my Christmas letter 

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all right, and in good time. Remember me 
to every one with a Happy New Year, while 
to your dear self heaps of love and hopes 
we'll spend the next one together. 

Billy. 



No. 14 General Hospital, 
My Dear Mother, — 

Your letters of Sept. 18, Oct. 25-31, 
Novr. 7-15 to hand, all in a bunch, and 
mighty glad I was to get them. I sorted 
them all out in sequence of dates and read 
till I came to the one of Novr. 7th — well, 
I could hardly believe my eyes — I am aw- 
fully glad for the excellent news conveyed, 
and can hardly wait till the volume appears. 
I am very glad, indeed, that everything has 
turned out so well, and you don't need to 
be told that I hope for your sake the royal- 
ties pile in. I agree that Marion should 
take charge of the exchequer, for you might 

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get reckless in your old age and buy a set 
of gold teeth, or "sumpin." 

As this is all the paper I have I cannot 
write more to-day, but will later on. I en- 
close a war note from the village of Bethune 
— each district issues their own, and they 
are no use outside that area — it's a me- 
mento. Now, my dear, there is practically 
nothing else to tell — I'm getting all right 
again, but they have discovered some new 
thing wrong with me, and have taken a 
blood test for enteric — nothing serious, but 
it may keep me from the firing line for some 
time. Love to all who care, with more than 
a large lump for yourself. 

Billy. 



My Dear Mother,— 

I received your letters of Novr. 27th and 
28th, and you don't need to be told I was 
most happy to get them. I first had better 
answer a lot of your questions — as to the 

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mail that was lost, why, it would be almost 
impossible for me to trace it, so we'll have 
to let those letters, etc., go. I think I mailed 
them from Manor House, but could not be 
sure. 

As to acknowledging parcels I always do, 
and quite promptly, too, but as I told you in 
my last letter I never got the cake from 
Aunt Elsie. I sent them a Xmas card, 
and have from time to time dropped them 
field cards. As to acknowledging others 
there will be thanks duly rendered — to the 
I. O. D. E. (this has already gone forward) 
— I've received a cake from Aunt B., also 
one parcel of shortbread from M. — she tells 
me there are five altogether and I've writ- 
ten her a good scolding for doing it. In any 
event, I can't eat anything like that now, 
but I can give them to less fortunate chaps. 
I may say I'm very glad you remembered 
the little girl about the book — I sent her a 
small parcel of lace (real) for Christmas 
that may help to trim some things mention- 
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able or otherwise. As to money matters, 
my dear, I don't spend much on myself over 
here outside eats, but eggs are jc. each, 
and if the other fellows want them in the 
mess you have to chip in — it's really those 
things that count. Of course, you always 
pay two prices for anything, and it is only 
recently I had to pay 13 francs ($2.60) for 
a pair of lined gloves — there's no use say- 
ing "write home for them," for we can only 
carry 35 lbs. of stuff, and you can't accumu- 
late much surplus on that. The idea is 
when you need things, get them, pay the 
price, and don't holler. However, I'm try- 
ing to save with the views you advanced 
ahead of me, and will do my best. 

Of course, I'm in a fever of excitement 
re the issue of that important book — I ex- 
pect right now the mail is jealously guard- 
ing it, but doubtless it will come along in 
good time. I suppose that no one was ever 
in a similar position — one generally views 
the fruits of their labours before they ma- 

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ture, but I cannot tell a thing about it, so 
you may imagine just what a predicament 
I'm in. 

I'm getting O. K. again, and expect to be 
back very shortly. I am just in receipt of a 
magazine from you, at least in your writing, 
with a story by F. J. D. — thanks — also a 
box of candy from the G.'s, for which I'll 
write. As I told you in my last letter, I 
would write as to how poor old Mac was 
killed. I will just start in my own way. 

I crowded between him and the usual 
pile of baggage just at the entrance to the 
Cecil Hotel — that was the first time I saw 
him, and it was before I had come over to 
this land of strife. I remarked him, for he 
was arguing with a taxi driver — that at- 
tracted my attention, for no officer argues 
with a taxi driver, firstly because it's fu- 
tile, secondly, no matter how much you'd 
like to hit him, you may not, and, lastly, 
you are certain to invoke a series of caustic 
remarks; for the taxi driver possesses just 

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as virulent a vocabulary as did his notorious 
predecessor, the London cabby. Therefore, 
I marked Mac, and when later in the rotun- 
da I met him with a bunch of chaps he was 
discoursing upon the price charged by the 
cabby. 

The next time I met him was a rainy 
afternoon when we were in billets last 
spring, as he marched in at the head of a 
draft. I went out to see him and with usual 
Canadian spirit said, "Welcome to our 
City!" I brought him into the Company 
mess, introduced him around and proffered 
a drink — he took it. I might say that when 
a new junior officer first comes it is cus- 
tomary for him to remain rather silent the 
first night in the presence of the veterans — 
as it were, sort of "Little children should 
be," etc., effect. He should answer all 
questions as to what shows are on in Lon- 
don, and how the heroes of Shorncliffe are 
putting up with the vicissitudes of week- 
end leave and things of a kindred nature. 

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But Mac was different — he regaled us with 
a sad tale of how much it had cost him at 
the base mess, where he had stayed two 
days, and of the horrible price he had paid 
for meals en route, and so on ad nauseam — 
in fact, if one did not know all were treated 
alike, the impression would have been that 
he had been most unmercifully swindled. 
I remember slipping out with Jack Y., and 
he remarked, "He's a rare bird — his name is 
Mc, — eh? — I'll bet he is a Glasgow Jew." 
Well, from his penurious proclivities, he 
earned the name of "Tightwad" — no mat- 
ter what he bought, he railed against the 
price, and I recollect well his rage when 
one morning with usual nonchalance a 
Flemish pirate charged him 2*^d. for a 
Mirror, a y 2 d. paper. 

It made no difference if the rest of the 
mess ordered a few extras, such as fruit, 
sardines, or Quaker Oats, he always ob- 
jected to the cost, until one and all came to 
believe that a few francs were the be all 

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and end all of his thought. He didn't make 
a very pleasant impression, for although he 
was a good officer, always willing for his 
turn, he never grumbled about anything 
except money. This was totally foreign to 
us, for somehow money doesn't seem to 
count much over here. One acquires a 
Croesus-like disregard for francs that really 
appals one when you send over your bank 
book — albeit, it is in the air, I think. You 
adopt the attitude of, "Oh, to-morrow I 
may be dead; What ho, Warder, Let fall 
the portcullis, and bring forth the minstrels, 
let us be merry for once." Anyway, money 
seems to go fairly rapidly for nothing at all, 
and while I know to your frugal mind a 
$ is ioo cents, and this sounds awful, still 
we are all alike — therefore, we failed to 
understand Mac's attitude. 

The usual routine went on. I saw, ate 
and slept with Mac till I "took" mine, and, 
of course, lost track of him until I returned 
to the Battalion. The first night I came 

[6s] 



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back I was guided to the Company dugout 
and almost before greetings were over Mac 
held up a pair of breeches he had just re- 
ceived from the Quarter Master. They 
were a pair of issue ones, but infantry offi- 
cers have to buy them — they are good, 
strong material, and certainly while they 
haven't the cut nor appearance of a Bond 
St. pair, suit admirably for "front line." 
"Imagine," he said, "9s. 6d. for a pair of 
breeches like that — I call it a swindle, and 
I think ordnance should be straafed for 
charging us at all for them." I reminded 
him that a grateful country gave one 
enough outfit allowance, at which he 
launched into a virulent attack on the Pay 
Department and the Government who ex- 
pected one to be always well dressed on an 
allowance expended months before in 
clothes, etc., long discarded. I laughed 
while remarking he was just the same as 
ever. 

I've simply told you all this so that you 
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would understand something of Mac's 
character — always and ever, he harped 
upon money, which, as I say, we never dis- 
cuss, except to say, "My God, where does 
it go to?" 

However, what I promised to tell you 
in my last letter was how he died, so I guess 
I'll start. I think I've written of the state 
of our trenches, and tried to tell you just 
how we are situated. Well, the other night 
while on patrol two of our men were 
bombed, had some machine-gun fire turned 
on them. Mac was on duty, and from a sap 
saw them fall. He turned to the N. C. O. 
with him and telling him he was going out 
to see if they were hit, over he went. I 
didn't see it, being at Company Headquar- 
ters, but know how he must have threaded 
his way through our wire, then dodged 
around craters, etc., till he found them. It 
seems both were hit and he helped one in, 
telling the other he would send back. 
Meanwhile, one of the men in the post 

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brought us word and the Officer Command- 
ing went out. While Mac was working his 
way back with the man, the moon came out 
and the Hun opened up on him — he ar- 
rived safely, although the machine-gun fire 
kept up, and wanted to go back for the 
other chap. The O. C. counselled against 
it, arguing that he was all right for a while, 
and pointed out that a large cloud was com- 
ing over, but Tightwad never hesitated — 
over and out he went, hugging the ground, 
dodging from crater to crater in the midst 
of a true rain of swishy bullets. He ar- 
rived at the shell hole where the chap was, 
but when he stood up to lift him to his back 
one drilled him through the head — and 
there we found him two hours later when 
we went out. We got the other fellow, all 
right, and brought back Mac's body. I 
wrote you how, but thought perhaps you'd 
care to know why, we buried him. I 
couldn't help but think of him always care- 
ful of the pennies, ever grumbling at the 
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cost of things material, and how he valued 
so little his own life, and with the thought 
came those lines from Macbeth about 
throwing "away the dearest thing he owned 
as tho' 'twere a careless trifle." 

There's not much more to say, my dear, 
so I'll close. Love to all, with heaps for 
yourself. 

Billy. 



JVo. 14 Hospital, Boulogne. 
Dear Mother, — 

I cannot just remember when I cried be- 
fore — somehow it is in a man's code that 
with adolescence he puts tears away, and I 
can assure you it is doubly so in this game 
of death. But I cried to-day. 

I was walking along the corridor when a 
chap in the T. M.'s of our brigade spoke 
to me. After greetings he said, "You'd 
know Garnet, of the — th Battalion? Well, 
he's in here with an arm off, and what is 

[69] 



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worse, blind, although he doesn't know it." 
He passed on and all morning I thought of 
the chap in the surgical ward below, until 
this afternoon I was impelled to go down. 
The nurse showed me to the room, and just 
prior to opening the door said, "He's not 
very well to-day; he realises for the first 
time that he is going to be blind; perhaps 
you'll cheer him up a bit, but don't stay 
long." A form on the bed, the outline 
showing white against the pillow — hair, a 
strip of white bandage, and unshaved 
cheeks were what I saw. The sister said, 
"Here's some one to see you," and withdrew. 
"Hello, old man," I said, cheerily. "How 
are they coming?" "Oh, yes," came the 
reply, "you're a Canadian." In that one 
sentence I think I heard as many human 
emotions embodied as I ever hope to. Fear 
and nervousness (akin, but different), an- 
guish and joy — an anomaly, you'll say, but 
true. I told him my name and battalion — 
he remembered me, he said, and though 

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usually talkative, I rather stuck for words — 
I was taking things in. I noticed his hand 
nervously clutching the counterpane, and 
made a desperate stab. Tactlessly, I said, 
"Well, these aren't such rotten trenches, 
eh?" "No, no, no!" he said, hurriedly. "But 
you don't understand. I've never seen 
them, and what's more, I'm never — going 
to!" Then quickly, "I'm blind, do you 
understand — blind? I didn't know till last 
night, when I realised it for the first time." 
He was distraught and working himself 
into a nervous state, so I pulled myself to- 
gether, and in a modulated voice tried to 
reassure him. I told him about the won- 
derful advances of surgery in this war, how 
they could do anything, and then and there 
told the best lie I've ever done. From 
whole cloth I wove a tale about a friend 
of mine who was wounded and thought he 
was going to lose his sight, but how it came 
back after a while. I explained that the 
famous saline cure was almost miraculous 

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and I "ad libed" for what seemed ages, but 
all to no purpose. "But, think," he said, 
"never again to see light — never to know if 
it's day, never to read, to skate, to see a 
show — to hear people cheering somewhere 
and not know what it's about." He was 
plainly growing hysterical, and the first 
thought I had was getting up to go out. 
I saw this was out of the question, so in- 
stead took the spasmodic, moving hand in 
mine, while rambling on in my best reas- 
suring way. He talked on and on, his sen- 
tences all reiterating the same ideas, "being 
led around like a dog," "no difference be- 
tween night and day" — "I wish I'd known, 
I'd have blown out my brains" — until I was 
rapidly growing fearful for him. 

Just as he began to quiet down in came 
sister, telling me "I'd stayed long enough." 
But he said, "No, sister, he's a Canadian; 
let him stay." He pleaded till she did. I 
don't know anything and care less about this 
segregation business they are arguing, but 

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the crux of the matter was summed up in 
that sentence. We started again — I spoke 
of the Peace talk, of the weather — I asked 
him innumerable questions, which if an- 
swered at all were a perfunctory "far 
niente" "yes" or "no" — but he kept saying 
over and over again, "Christ, Christ" — not 
as a curse, not with an atom of blasphemy, 
but more as one prays. I think that started 
my tears; anyway, they came, and I could 
not stop them — I blew my nose, I sniffled, I 
coughed, then finally stopped. Some one 
has said that the test of a man's bravery is 
heavy shell fire. I don't know, but I'll go 
through a heavy shelling or dodge minnies 
all day in preference to another hour of 
mental torture like I had to-day. I never 
realised how a man could suffer before. I 
racked my brain for cheerful topics, and 
delved into my memory for funny stories, 
but his grief was too deep, for it seemed use- 
less. Just when I reached the end of my 
tether in came a chaplain — I was thankful 

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for any one to relieve the strain. But it all 
started again; he poured out the pent-up 
feelings to the Padre, who in his sweet way 
did his best to assuage the mental pain. He 
talked in a soft, convincing way, also Garnet 
babbled on. I had Garnet's hand, and I don't 
know when he stopped talking, but I felt, 
rather than heard, the Padre's voice alone. 
The words seemed to sink into my mind 
subconsciously — I heard him say, "Yes, the 
Christ you name can make you see. Remem- 
ber the beggar by the roadside. He can 
wipe away all the tears from your eyes." 
Garnet was quiet and listened. The Padre 
talked on — he never suggested that the 
blindness would be incurable — he spoke of 
the far away worse things that might have 
happened. "Why, you have your memory 
— think, my boy, if God had taken that!" 
"But it wasn't God," broke in Garnet. 
"Think, my boy," he went on, "if God had 
taken that away — you might see, but could 
not enjoy; you could read, it is true, but not 

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understand. Think of that living death, to 
see things, but not appreciate them, while 
you have all the memories of years to look 
back on, and the probable hope that what 
you think is wrong." He spoke of the 
many men who would have to endure this 
trouble, of the great men who had been 
blind — he told him of Sir Arthur Pearson, 
who is doing so much for the blind, and 
how he had known for years he was slowly 
losing his sight, and finally of Milton. He 
drifted into that famous sonnet: 

"When I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and 

wide; 
And that one talent, which is death to hide, 
Lodged with me useless, tho' my soul more 

bent 
To serve therewith my Maker," 

and so on till the end, "They also serve who 
only stand and wait." It was like a benedic- 
tion, but after a moment he looked across at 
me and rose only to kneel. Seeing he was 

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going to pray, I did likewise. There in that 
room he offered up as fine a prayer as I 
ever heard — what he said, I don't know, 
but I felt it, and he ended up with, "And 
make His light to shine upon you." 

I guess we forget God out here, although 
sometimes He is very near, but I said 
"Amen" just as fervently as I used to when 
on your shoulder I said it after "Now I 
lay me," and also said, "God bless the 
Padre," which is the first time I ever re- 
member saying it just the same way. We 
rose. Garnet said, "Thank you, Sir," and 
felt for the Padre's hand. Out we went — 
I was crying again. 

I haven't received any more mail, and I 
don't expect any now to-day, although I've 
waited for the book you said you were 
sending. I expect it, together with the 
rest of my mail, is somewhere up the line, 
and in the Christmas rush it may be late. 
However, I guess it will come along O. K. 
I am not looking forward to a very cheer- 

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ful Christmas. Of course, I suppose it is 
better than the front line, but there I'd 
know every one, anyway. I'm writing to 
Aunt Bella to-night. The weather here is 
very cold, and for twenty-four hours there 
has been a big storm on, rain with a high 
wind, and I'm told several wrecks in the 
Channel. As to my ailments, I have no 
fever, but they have me diagnosed as gas- 
tritis — I have bad pains when and after I 
eat, with dysentery slightly, in addition to 
quite a lot of pain near my appendix. They 
want to send me to England after I'm bet- 
ter, but I asked them not to — if I go I'm 
struck off the strength, and good-bye to 
any promotion, remote as it seems to be. 
Of course, one has no say in the matter, be- 
ing in the army. 

There's no more news, but I can send 
heaps of love to yourself, with plenty of 
New Year's greetings for any one else. 

Billy. 



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50 Weymouth St., 
London, W., Eng. 
Dear Mother, — 

As I wired you, I'm in London. There's 
not much to tell, except that they figured I 
had developed appendicitis symptoms, and 
shipped me over on the 30th, I have been 
examined, and am only waiting till they 
decide exactly whether to operate or blast. 
I'm feeling fairly fit, although not by any 
means up to form — I have no appetite, and 
suffer with bad pains after food — that's the 
worst. 

Well, my mail, of course, is all bunged 
up again. I received a parcel from Mrs. S. 
just before I left Boulogne, and will write 
them. As yet I've not received the book, 
but expect it will come in time. 

This is one of the best hospitals, so they 
say, in London — a private one, with civilian 
Doctors, all Harley St. specialists, and there 
are other patients beside officers, I mean 
private patients. It is used exclusively for 

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Canadian officers, that is, a part of it, and is 
not rationed, etc., by the army. While I 
cannot eat much the food seems to be quite 
good, with a big variety, more so than in an 
army hospital. How long I'll be here I 
cannot say, but I'm pretty certain if they 
operate to get three months' leave, and if I 
do, I'll go back to Canada. However, I'll 
cable you before I do anything, and you 
reply to this address — just what you think 
best. I'm eagerly awaiting a letter from 
you, telling me all about things. Nearly 
everything going to Canada, also coming, 
is censored, so I want you to be very careful 
what you say, for military reasons. I can't 
think of anything else to tell you — will 
write often, although now it costs a penny. 
Love to all, with heaps for you. 

Billy. 



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SO Weymouth St., London. 
My Dear Mother, — 

Your letters of Dec. nth and 16th just 
to hand. I'm more than amazed that you 
didn't know I was in hospital. I cabled 
you from Boulogne on either the 4th or 5th 
of December, but I guess some way or 
other the thieves we have to contend with 
at various junctures pocketed the money. 

Well, my dear, I have not as yet received 
a copy of the book, but trust the same will 
come to hand. In any event, on receipt of 
this, I wish you would mail me another 
copy — I would like to send one to Lady 
M. I am feeling better somewhat, but am 
still under observation, and may have to 
be operated on for appendicitis, although 
they are loath to do so unless necessary. 

I've received no parcels from any one 
that I haven't told you of — that is, none 
from Auntie and only two out of five from 
the little girl. However, I expect they'll 
turn up in due course. Yes, the little girl 

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is good looking, and I figure will make me 
a good wife to pull in harness with over the 
road, whether it be rocky or rosy. As I 
said, she is good looking, which, while not 
a necessity, cannot be classed as a luxury. 
She is a church-goer and interested in those 
things which should suit you. 

I haven't any more to say that's interest- 
ing. The weather here is very cold for 
England, with sleet and snow. I've seen 
one or two rather good shows — one this 
afternoon, an adaptation of Ali Baba and 
the Forty Thieves — the most wonderful 
riots of colour imaginable, with excellent 
music. 

Address me, as I said, simply c/o Cana- 
dian Record's Office, London. Love to 
every one, with sincere hopes that you are 
better ere this. 

Billy. 



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SO Weymouth St., London. 
Dear Mother, — 

Just a few lines in bed, the fifth day after 
an operation for appendicitis. I'm feeling 
fairly fit, and have not much pain now — 
had rather a rough time till last night, as I 
developed a cough, due to chloroform, 
which caused a lot of pain and kept my 
temp. up. 

"The Sunny Sub" came to hand — it is 
very nicely gotten up, but I think too per- 
sonal. As it says in the foreword, they were 
never intended but for a mother's eye, and 
if I had been editing it would have pruned 
a little here and there. This is all I will 
say — I'm pleased otherwise. 

Must stop — feel my temp, soaring — will 
write soon again. 

Billy. 



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SO Weymouth St., London. 
My Dear Mother,— 

I cannot for the life of me believe that 
you've stopped writing me, but since Christ- 
mas have only had one letter, that written 
on Dec. 19th, I think, although you are, 
I presume, sending my mail c/o Records 
Office as I cabled. I am constantly saying 
to myself that if no one else wrote I would 
still believe that my own dear Maw did — 
however, I suppose I will just have to be 
patient a while in the hopes that some will 
come. I've lain here now for two weeks 
eagerly every morning anticipating some 
letters, but always disappointed. 

I'm coming along fine — the stitches were 
taken out a few days ago and I expect to 
be able to sit up on a chair in a day or two. 
I'm in no pain now, but of course have to 
be careful for some time in case the wound 
should bleed internally. I feel very fit, 
however, and have a big appetite — in fact, 
enjoy my meals, which is something I've 

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not done for many months, so I expect soon 
to be about. I was horribly run down, 
however, before the operation — in fact, 
weigh only about 140 pounds — less than 
I've done for ten years, and am so thin now 
my legs are like pipe stems and my arms 
bigger around the elbow joint than any- 
where else. Just what leave I'll get I can't 
say, but not likely enough to get to Canada 
on. They are giving very short leaves now, 
as every officer is required for the front. I 
have received no parcels since I wrote you 
last and fear Aunt B.'s has gone astray — 
I believe she said there was a gold piece in 
it too, which makes it worse than ever. I'll 
write her, anyway. 

All the staff here have enjoyed the book 
immensely and a V.A.D. whom I lent it to 
said her husband sat up till 1 a.m. to finish 
it, something he never did to her knowledge 
before, so I guess it's all right. The weather 
here is very cold, skating general, and in 
fact the coldest Jany. for 30 years. Of 

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course, I haven't been out, so cannot say 
from experience. 

I can't think of any more news — hope 
you are better and able to get around. Love 
to any one who cares, with a generous heap 
for your dear self, 

Billy. 



Stoke Court, 

Stoke Poges, Bucks. 
My Dear Mother, — 

Your letters of Deer. 24th, Jany. 3-7-14- 
21 all to hand in a flock and you can bet I 
was awfully glad to get them. I see the 
envelopes are addressed c/o Record Office 
— I remember writing you once that if I 
were wounded to address them c/o Cana- 
dian Records Office — the mere fact that 
they did not have Canadian on balled things 
up a bit — in fact, they were lurking around 
some place else altogether. However, there 
is some satisfaction in getting them even 

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that late. By the way, a parcel with a cake 
and some hankies came to hand, also two 
more from the little girlie, one from Aunt 
B. and one from Mrs. J. — all acknowl- 
edged. Received all the comments, &c, 
also the clipping from the Globe. I did 
not receive the parcel of sox, but suppose 
they will arrive in due course, when I will 
forward them to the Officer Commanding 
A Co. for the men. 

It is very hard here to get a chance to 
write — there is only room among one hun- 
dred that you can sit in, for they only keep 
one fire going and the rest of the house is 
like an ice plant. In this room, larger than 
the average workingman's whole house, 
there is always a noise — bridge games, 
piano, canned music or "sumpin" — so that 
unless I retire to my bedroom, which is so 
chillsome one has perforce to wear a great 
coat, there is no chance to write a line. 

I think I told you that this house was 
where Gray, the poet, once lived, and that 
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the church where he wrote "The Elegy" is 
close by. I spent the other morning in the 
church yard and the church itself. It is a 
queer old spot indeed, dating back to iioo 
odd, with many rare stained glass windows, 
which were put in in the 1200's. The pew 
which this family has was the one which 
Gray occupied — I sat in it — "Gray's cor- 
ner," as it is called, but it really didn't in- 
spire me to any wonderful strophes — in fact, 
left me rather cold. I thought perhaps I 
might have an inspiration, but, alas, no. 
However, I rambled, if that is the correct 
word, among the "mouldering heaps," read- 
ing half obliterated epitaphs on moss cov- 
ered stones, also climbed the "ivy mantled 
tower," although the owl has, I believe, 
long since gone to its rest. Vandal that I 
am, I chiselled a small fragment of stone 
from the tower and also plucked a few 
sprigs of ivy, which I enclose herewith. 

You might convey my sincerest thanks 
to Miss C. and assure her that I appreciate 

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her kindness. Tell her that when I come 
back I'll endeavour to put my thanks in a 
more tangible form, say a ride around the 
belt line or luncheon at Bowies'. 

I wish you would collect some interest- 
ing clippings, &c, and send them in a letter 
— there's no use sending the whole paper, 
as they never arrive, if you want them. I 
will look up Mr. O. when I go up to Lon- 
don this week, or rather next, to have a 
new bandage put on the wound — a sort of 
binder for support — and if I get time will 
see him. 



Love to all. 



Billy. 



Pax Hill Park, 
Lind field, Sussex. 
My Dear Mother, — 

As you will see, I have changed my ad- 
dress — was not at all happy where I was, 
and yesterday came here till the finish of 
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my leave. I rang up Mr. O. yesterday and 
went to lunch with him — he was most 
charming and we rambled for an hour in 
the very old part of London, seeing quaint 
spots, etc. I was not feeling awfully well, 
therefore did not enjoy it as much as I 
might have. My nerves are on the jump 
again and my sleeping apparatus has dis- 
appeared almost completely. In fact, my 
dear, I'm far from well — just what is going 
to happen after March 20th I can't say, 
but I can assure you I'm not in any fit shape 
to go to France. However, only time can 
tell. I received the sox from Gait and will 
write a letter of thanks — not to-day, because 
I'm not able to compose one fitting. I've 
forwarded the sox on to one of the boys in 
the Battalion and they will be appreciated, 
I assure you. 

I've had no mail from you since the large 
bunch of letters I got, but presume some 
will come along. Lots of Canadian mail 
went down on the Laconia, so we're told. 

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I do wish you would send registered two 
copies of that book — I tried to get one from 
Mr. O., but he did not have any. Now, 
my dear, I have no more news — will write 
you later in the week when I feel better. 
Love, Billy. 



In the Camp. 
My Dear Mother, — > 

I'm wondering if you'll remember those 
lines in "Romeo and Juliet" about "the 
winged messenger of Heaven" and the 
"white upturned wondering eyes of mor- 
tals that gaze on him when he bestrides the 
lazy pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom 
of the air." 

At all events, they come to me now as 
I watched easily the most thrilling air fight 
I've seen since I've been out. I fully ex- 
pect there were hundreds of white upturned 
eyes watching it as well. It seems particu- 
larly appropriate, for the "lazy pacing 

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clouds" were there, fleecy, almost glinting, 
in a sky cold and clear. 

Ordinarily one gives a cursory, apathetic 
glance after the first odd dozen fights in the 
air, then rather boredly goes about his 
business — but some way as I craned my 
neck into the sky this morning the interest 
grew. I don't know whether I've ever 
sketched for you my impressions of an air 
fight, but I'll tell you about this one. 

I came out of our "elephant" at the 
boom, boom, boom of the quick firing anti- 
aircraft guns just to see if anything might 
happen. I'm one of those unfortunate ones 
in France who must plead Not Guilty to 
ever having seen Fritz's machine brought 
down by Archie's, although I always look 
when I hear them. As I say, I looked up, 
and there, as usual, was the dappled sky 
where the shells were breaking. Dappled 
is as descriptive a word as I can apply, for 
the section of sky looks like a dappled grey 
horse, if the horse were blue. It sounds 

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funny, perhaps, to put it that way, but it 
conveys my meaning, I hope. It's this series 
of small white and black rings of smoke 
left by the exploding shells that nearly 
always first calls one's attention to the fact 
that a Hun plane is in the offing — then to 
find the plane. If I were giving instruc- 
tions to tourists I would emphasise the fact 
that if they really wanted to see the plane 
to look anywhere but close to the rings. So 
you gaze, trying to "pick up" the machine. 
Often you can hear the purr of it, but you'll 
search for maybe minutes until there's a 
glint, a shimmer, like a lone sunbeam in the 
late afternoon — then you've spotted it. 
White, almost invisible to the eye, it wheels 
and dips. If you want to follow it you dare 
not look away for any length of time lest 
you lose it. This is the German machine I 
speak of — ours are painted differently so 
we can usually find them more quickly. 

Well, that is just what occurred — I 
hunted in the blue till I saw the German 
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plane, then ours. We employ slow-going 
machines for observation and bombing work 
and faster ones for fighting. One learns to 
distinguish the difference in them quite 
readily when they are in the air, but if you 
took me back to an aerodrome I expect they 
would all look alike to me. This machine 
of ours was one of our slower ones — they 
are not primarily intended for fighting. I 
expect likely they were taking photos, for 
it is a lovely day. Evidently our friend the 
Hun appeared out somewhere and pro- 
ceeded to give battle. Our Archies, of 
course, picked him up until he got close 
to the other machine, when they stopped 
for fear of hitting it. 

Then, as I say, I watched one of the 
prettiest fights I have ever seen — our plane 
manoeuvring and trying to climb, while the 
fast Hun fighter crept nearer and nearer — 
watched them dip and turn, each trying to 
jockey for position. Then one hears a rip- 
ping purr or two from above. It's hard to 

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describe that sound, but imagine stepping 
on the accelerator of a purring cat — it's the 
machine guns crackling up there. Almost 
indistinct little threads of black or white 
suddenly appear like a series of irregular 
ravels in a silk stocking. These are made 
by "tracer" bullets, which are used to show 
just where the guns are firing, one in every 
so many rounds — they leave this trail be- 
hind them, thus enabling the airmen to 
correct the aim. For I suppose five 
minutes they twisted, dived, climbed and 
slipped. All of us wondered what the out- 
come would be, when suddenly Fritz turned 
and started back towards whence he came. 
We knew the reason, but we couldn't see it 
for a moment — it appeared in a second like 
a wasp — one of our fast fighting machines 
leaving behind a thin trail of smoke. On 
he came after the flying machine (flying 
being used to denote fleeing) until it was 
useless and dangerous to go further. That's 
all of it. I'd like to have told you that the 
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German plane was shot down, and if I were 
writing a story, might have — but — "he lived 
to fight another day." 

As I said, however, it was a topping fight, 
and not always does the enemy come oft so 
luckily — in fact, only a few days ago one 
of their machines crashed down near our 
billets. The pilot was dead, but the ob- 
server, a youngster of seventeen, was unin- 
jured, and when our men ran to the wreck 
blazed away with a revolver at them — he 
was a plucky little kid, and the Brigade 
Intelligence Officer told me no amount of 
interrogation got much information from 
him. He wouldn't believe the Channel 
was open and even when confronted with 
the previous day's London papers insisted 
they were published in Paris or somewhere. 
Odd, isn't it, that those Huns are so igno- 
rant? — I'm glad I'm British. 

Well, my dear, not much news — same old 
grind. Remember me to all and write soon 
—heaps of love. Billy. 

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In the Field. 
My Dear Mother,— 

Our pleasures out here are not always 
what can be called Rabelaisian, to say the 
least, but sometimes they seem very won- 
derful indeed, by comparison. For in- 
stance, I don't suppose that a meal consist- 
ing of roast beef, rather tough, half boiled, 
half roasted, with some bread three days 
old, butter that has been interned for a good 
term in a tin, and was in all probability none 
too fresh when it was poured in, together 
with some potatoes and French peas, is a 
meal to make the average mouth water, but 
when it is added to by a soupcon of cham- 
pagne at 6 francs the bottle and tamped 
down by a rice pudding with a sauce con- 
cocted by a versatile batman from con- 
densed milk, Australian jam, and le Bon 
Dieu knows what else, it certainly seems a 
garguntian feast — particularly after six 
days when you've munched a chunk of bully 

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or spooned out a plate of cold Maconochie. 
That's one pleasure — a meal. 

Of course we have others. MAIL DAY, 
when the Canadian mail comes in, is one. 
In fact that's the great day — the gala day 
of the week — for then we commune with 
those "Over There," and feast like lords on 
date cookies, which quite frequently have 
been closely associated with a moist fruit 
cake, or been severely kissed by some cocoa- 
nut kisses. Anyway they taste good and I 
am sure convey great pleasure. 

So Mail Day ranks as a bright spot, giv- 
ing a lot of happiness. In addition I have 
always taken great pleasure in writing to 
you — somehow when I sit down to inscribe 
all my thoughts, it is a kind of confessional, 
and I seem to ramble on at random. It is 
almost as good as receiving a bright newsy 
letter to write one. This is oft not a very 
easy task either, I'd have you know, for 
usually there's not such a budget of news as 
would interest, or yet could be told. 

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You mentioned once that my letters 
seemed rather sad — well, my dear, I wrote 
them just as I felt at the time when the 
mood was on me. As I say, pleasures are 
not many, and I'm afraid that numbers of 
the incidents that cause a laugh out here, 
if transplanted from the chalky soil here- 
abouts, would wither — it really requires the 
environment to make them seem funny. 
And truly, in many cases they are funny, 
but some of the sayings, I fear me, would 
not pass the censor, if the letter happened 
to strike, say, a sanctimoniously inclined 
person. There's many and many an inci- 
dent that could never be written about that 
has caused endless merriment. In fact one 
that occurred between a Colonel and a full 
private in the rear rank ever so long ago, 
has been told and retold in our brigade, 
never failing to elicit considerable laughter 
— but I couldn't tell you. 

Working parties invariably have a great 
deal of genuine humour around them. It's 

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always dark, and the remarks that pass as 
the party comes up to a communication 
trench, loaded with corrugated iron "A" 
frames or barbed wire, certainly have as hu- 
morous a flavour as one could wish. Stand- 
ing out clear in my memory is one night of 
murky darkness and falling rain when a 
party of men I had were digging for the 
Engineers. I would here interpolate that 
this is one of the principal things an infan- 
try man does — work for the Engineers — 
who reap the kudos for the same. Heigh 
ho! — we foot sloggers are the Patsy boys 
for the army, for a surety. In any event 
this night was wet and cold — we were per- 
haps 800 yards behind the front line scratch- 
ing away. Every few minutes indirect ma- 
chine gun fire from the Hun played about, 
so that we had to fall flat. There were in- 
numerable shell holes all filled with water, 
while the ground was decidedly slippery. 
One chap in his hurry to dodge a burst of 
fire slipped and rolled into a nearby hole. 

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Wet up to his neck, he rose and, standing in 
the "Goo," lifted up his voice — "Well may 
I go to hell — to think I volunteered for 
this." 

You may not appreciate this, nor yet 
the following of McKinnon, one of our Offi- 
cers who walked three miles to a rubber 
boot depot, "Because none of these batmen 
can pick out a decent pair of boots, and I'm 
going to have a pair that fit me this time," 
who, when he returned to the dugout and 
candle light, discovered that he had picked 
out both for the same foot. You see you 
have to understand the conditions before 
you appreciate the joke. 

For instance it was only the other night 
McQuarrie handed us a laugh. Ruther- 
ford and myself were sitting at supper — it 
had been raining at least all day, and every- 
thing was dripping. In camp Mac be- 
grimed and shiny, his shrapnel helmet shed- 
ding on to his already water soaked shoul- 
ders, and his boots squelching at every step, 
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With the saddest look in the world and most 
pathetically disgruntled voice, he said, 
''This is a blankety blank life." Then slith- 
ering out of his trench coat, his eye catching 
sight of a plate of "Pork and" brightened. 
Quite unconsciously, with all the dignity 
one would assume in the "Carlton," he 
called "Waiter" to a muddy batman only 
two yards away behind a curtain. Again, I 
say you require the surroundings, but I only 
tell you these little things that seem funny 
to us, to show that we don't perpetually 
wear long faces and it is not all sorrow out 
here. 

I could keep on indefinitely quoting sto- 
ries which to us are funny, albeit I don't 
think you would understand, but en passant, 
will tell you one of the most pathetic tales 
I wot of. 

There came on a draft to our Company 
a small skinny individual. One felt sorry 
for him just by looking at him. He had a 
face as cheerful as the back of a train you 

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should have caught. In fact, altogether he 
was as dismal an affair as you could picture. 
I watched him time after time when the 
Corporal was sorting out the mail, and who 
would finally turn to him and say, "Nothing 
for you." He always seemed to expect 
something that never arrived. 

One day at a pay parade I happened to 
look over his pay book. His next of kin 
was a second cousin, married, evidently liv- 
ing on a farm. I questioned him and 
found he was an orphan. As I say he never 
got any letters or parcels, and so once or 
twice on foot inspection I slipped him a 
pair of those good home knit socks you send 
me.* Eventually, one day a parcel did ar- 
rive for him. He lit up like a cathedral, 
and whilst some of the others stood round he 
jerked off the cotton cover and produced, 
what do you think? Two tins of Clark's 
pork and beans, two tins of Clark's bully 
beef, and a small tin of cheese. If there are 

, *Because issue ones get holey quickly. 
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three things edible in France which one can 
gorge upon at the expense of the country 
they are cheese, bully and beans. In fact, 
the men usually refuse to take any cheese. 
That's the explanation. 

The crowd laughed and joked, while 
he just walked over to the nearby in- 
cinerator to dump the lot in. It certainly 
was funny but there was also just a tinge 
of pathos to it, don't you think? 

Looking this scrawl over, there seems to 
be an awful lot about parcels/which is not a 
hint for any more, but perhaps unconscious- 
ly an appreciation. 

Give my kindest regards and fondest re- 
membrances to my dear old friends Mr. 
and Mrs. T. and with loads of love to your 
dear self. 

Billy. 



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In the Field. 
My Dear Mother, — 

I started this letter an hour ago but was 
interrupted by the Padre who came in for 
"a wee bit talk," as he said. As he has just 
left me, and I've long been minded to write 
you about him I'll postpone what I started 
out to say. 

Apropos of Padres — the name Chaplains 
get out here — I would preface my remarks 
by stating that often when a lad I used to go 
to church, if the minister wasn't a good 
speaker or there were no pretty girls in the 
choir, or the organist should have been a 
blacksmith. I frequently did not take much 
interest in the minister himself — I went 
wrongly, I'll admit, but primarily to be en- 
tertained or learn something of oratory. 

However I've changed my views mate- 
rially over here since I've seen some of the 
black shoulder strapped Padres work, and I 
think I'll always have a greater respect and 
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consideration for them in the future. I say 
some of them, for they don't all command 
the same respect, any more than we combat- 
ants do, but the ilk has enhanced in value in 
my eyes considerably by the efforts of one of 
them — Our Padre. 

He's short, gaunt and wiry; his clothes 
seem to drape on him and his face is the 
colour of ours — sort of a tanned oak. It's 
not a pleasant face — it's wrinkled and hard 
looking — there are crow's feet at the eyes 
which are grey, I think, and always laugh- 
ing. There are several seams at various 
angles on his physiognomy, in short, he is 
anything but clerical looking, and I'll ven- 
ture to state if one dressed him up in ordi- 
nary clothes, not one in a hundred, nay a 
thousand, could conjecture correctly what 
manner of life he followed. I certainly 
would fail, I'm sure. 

But beyond that face, behind the mud 
stained, draped uniform, I would wager 
there is no stouter nor kindlier heart. The 

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expression "a heart as big as a church" I 
suppose originated a long time since when 
churches were the largest buildings, but his 
is in the sky scraper or department store 
class. 

If I sat down to tabulate the innumerable 
acts, great and small, that have endeared 
him to the men and added to their comfort, 
I fear my paper would run short, but I 
must tell you at least a few. To begin with, 
when a certain "Big Show" was on and the 
men had fallen like nine pins, he stayed out 
three days and nights, always under shell 
fire, with a couple of men and as he came 
across a body a small grave was scratched, 
the personal effects put in a sand bag. A 
murmured prayer, and then on again, for 
seventy-two long weary hours, the whole 
time in the forward area. Whether any 
unkindly shell has since dug up some of 
those graves I can't say, but he alone knows 
just how many bodies he breathed a final 
prayer above. That alone entitles him to 
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some decoration, which I don't suppose he 
will ever get. It wasn't duty made him do 
it, because he didn't have to, but it was 
done. 

He is a worker as you'll gather, but he's 
also a fighter. While I wasn't there per- 
sonally, I was told that once when wander- 
ing around some posts, he learned that the 
men were short of bombs and all wires cut. 
He never said a word but returned after a 
time with a pail full of mills, twenty-four 
in all, which would weigh over thirty-six 
pounds, while it was only the other night he 
walked about ten miles in order to get cocoa, 
sugar and milk so that a working party 
could have a hot drink when they arrived 
back to supports in the early hours. 

Those sort of things make quite a strong 
appeal and while I love him so may be pre- 
judiced in his favour, I'll bet if one could 
take the vote of every officer and man it 
would be unanimously in his favour. As 
for the men — adoration is scarcely the word, 

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but it comes as close as any that I can con- 
jure up right now. 

He, and his life, just one glorified sermon, 
which reminds me that his sermons are with- 
out precedent. Can you picture a battalion 
just relieved on a Saturday night wearily 
trudging in muck to billets and how the 
thought of Sunday church parade would 
rankle. Well our men know he'll never de- 
liver a long sermon if they are tired, not 
that they are ever very long, but once I re- 
member for service, a hymn, the usual ritual 
for field service, including the Apostles' 
Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the sermon 
which was as follows: "It has been said, 
'Speech is silver — Silence is golden' — so I 
give you the best I have to offer — Gold. 
We will now sing the National Anthem." 
If you think that wasn't a priceless oration, 
and did more good than any theological 
discourse, divided into firstly — secondly — 
thirdly, why you win two more chances. 

He's always mouching around the line 
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where he "hadn't orter be" — up in the 
trenches support or front, often popping in 
to have a meal and if there are any letters 
to censor (the bane of an officer's day, by the 
way) he does his share if not more. 

Of course they are not all like him, nor 
liked as he is, but as I say, my opinion of 
Chaplains has expanded considerably as I 
review the deeds of Our Own Padre. 

Likewise this letter has expanded, so good 
night, Mother o' mine, for now I must pinch 
an hour's sleep. 

Love to all, 

Billy. 



Somewhere in France. 
Dear Mother, — 

I've just come in to the billet after two 
hours of sitting in an O. P. watching afar 
the front line, so I felt that I must, if pos- 
sible, interpret for you the view as it is 
reflected on my mind. The spell to write 

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is on me and if I ramble on rather dis- 
connectedly, you'll excuse me I know. 

I've been sitting in a "camouflage" tree 
that is used as an O. P. gazing out across 
the war-riven lands between a road run- 
ning parallel to the lines and a dreary ditch 
known as "The line." If you don't know 
what a "camouflage" tree is I'm afraid I 
can't tell you, because I know not how the 
censor will take it, but there is such a thing. 
Howbeit I sat there this glorious winter 
afternoon with a pair of binoculars gazing 
out to the grey blue veins netting the snow 
covered land, the veins that betoken the 
labyrinthine ways of the trenches, and what 
a scene! I've racked my brain for a fitting 
word to picture it, and can best express the 
idea conveyed to me by comparison of the 
landscape to a tapestry all cut up with 
woven into it all the sombre colours that 
one could conjure up, greys, whites, blacks, 
browns all dun and drab with only here 
and there a glint of golden shimmer as the 
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sun loaned his beams to a hump of snow 
clad land, or the ruins of a one time build- 
ing. 

It's been very quiet all day, in fact as one 
sat up in that still tree watching, watching 
across that desolate strip, the moments long 
lingering with absolute solitude made 
themselves felt almost. Still and clear the 
air, scarcely a sound for minutes at a time, 
so strange, so odd in this land where there 
is scarce a moment unbroken, undisturbed 
by the weird blast of H. E., so I sat and 
marvelled at the view in front. As I say 
a tangled irregular net of dirty coloured 
lines between snow white meadows, yet not 
meadows, for I knew beneath them lay the 
scarred distorted land that once was beaute- 
ous Picardy. The sun gleaming down 
sheened and sparkled the foreground, mak- 
ing almost a fairyland, while every bough 
of the wounded trees sentinelling the road 
was transformed into a glistening fantastic 
pendant, and oh Dear, what splendour 

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there seemed in those silences and the 
thoughts engendered by them. Thoughts 
of home, of the ones I loved, memories of 
days so foreign of what I have been living 
in lately; days of peace, nights of ease all 
relegated into an abyssmal depth for the 
great God of War and I pondered mightily 
as that procession of pictures in memory 
(pictures that lure and enchanted) passed, 
pondered as to the why and wherefore this 
old world should have gone mad. It seems 
a shame. But there, I don't want to seem 
pessimistic or discontented, for after all 
while it is not pleasant, there will always be 
happy reminiscences of France during the 
war. However, I sat until the sun sank in 
a blaze of saffron behind me, and the view 
changed. 

As old Sol journeyed afar beyond the 
rim, so journeyed the heat he gave out and 
so the light. Twilight came, the short win- 
ter twilight and the infinity of view before 
me melted. I say infinity, because from 

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the snow covered ground there was no 
horizon. The line merged into whitish 
sky, I know not where slowly blending into 
greyish blue, while here and there a small 
wayward cloud was halved in cerise from 
the west. So, my Dear, I clambered down 
to come in here filled with a thousand de- 
sires and wishes, a thousand thoughts that 
tingle and quiver in my brain but which I 
cannot articulate, unexpressed little hopes, 
inexpressible longings that even to you I 
don't seem capable of putting on paper. I 
think I must be homesick to-night, certain- 
ly moody to say the least, so guess I'll close. 
Love to any who care to be remembered, 
with the usual overdose to yourself. 

Billy. 

Somewhere in France. 
Dear Mother, — 

Since I last wrote you we have moved 
up from reserve to the front line once more, 
and are not having too bad a tour. It is 

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as usual mucky and wet, but the dugouts 
are not bad. The one we are in at present 
is nice and deep, much deeper than our 
old H. Q. which was minnied in some days 
ago. This is quite a decent one with a 
table, 4 boxes, and 2 bunks in to use when 
you get the odd chance to sleep, at present 
none too prevalent, as there are only 3 of 
us to the Co'y and it seems as though you 
just drop off to sleep when it is time to 
stagger out again for the next tour. Sher- 
man was right, I'll give my affidavit if you 
want it. I am supposed to be on duty on 
the dug-out now to receive any messages 
that come, so intend to burnish up the time 
by indicting letters to all the people to 
whom I owe. Of course I never figure I 
owe you one, and particularly not lately, 
as it is some time since I got the last one, 
however see'in as 'ow you're my maw, fig- 
ure I'll let you in on the time, I'm chisel- 
ling from the Government. 
A runner has just reported with a mes- 

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sage that the gunners are going to put on a 
shoot in a few minutes, so I have had to 
stop to send our word to Little Boy Blue, 
who is on duty in the trench, Jerry is asleep 
snoring like a pedigreed bull dog. You 
know him, but I don't think I've ever told 
you about Bluey, as we call him. Ordi- 
narily he doesn't belong to this Co'y, but 
as we are short they sent him over for this 
tour. He is a funny kid, and Blue isn't 
his name at all, just a nickname because 
he is the most despondent, morose fellow 
in the world. Honestly, I have never seen 
him even moderately jolly. He came 
while I was in Blighty, so had his name 
long before I knew him, but he always 
seemed to me to be such a surly fellow, 
hardly ever a word more than necessary, 
and even the morning jolt of rum never 
caused him to smile. I tried my brand of 
humour on him numerous times, but invari- 
ably it left him cold. His Co'y and ours 
were billeted together last time out and I 

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really endeavoured to fathom him without 
success. 

What a life! The signaller has just 
turned me in a message asking for a return 
showing the number of Russians in the Co'y 
who speak Bulgarian. I ask you, can you 
beat it? In consequence of the above I 
have had to dig out the C. S. M. whose 
job at the best of times is a rotten one, and 
who will now dredge his way through the 
muck to all the posts to enquire of the noble 
representatives of the steam roller if they 
talk Bulgarian. This is the last straw. I 
have often said that ere I embark ever 
again to war I shall compile a complete 
record in a vest pocket edition of every 
man, including the number of pimple spots 
and blemishes on his anatomy, also includ- 
ing his preference in drinks, whether he 
likes blondes or brunettes, history of his 
disgraceful past, with a horoscope of his 
terrible future, so as to have it handy in 
case some red tabbed geek who has noth- 
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ing more to do than figure out fool questions 
should want them. Albeit this one is what 
my fellow Colonials, the Australians, 
would call the "purple limit." 

I am now going out to watch the shoot. 

Later. 

This letter was started last night and 
although it is now another day it really 
makes no difference when you are in a dug- 
out for light does not come in and I am 
writing this by the light of the usual lone 
candle. Since I stopped writing it has been 
one night-mare of a night, the everlasting 
mud, the slithering rain and numbing cold, 
the general depression attendant with them, 
all a long, long "stand too," and now I am 
here being temporarily heated by that 
elixir, "the rum issue." "I wonder what the 
venters buy one-half so precious as the stuff 
they sell." 

I have been reading this over and I find 
although I'd forgotten it I started out to 

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tell you about Little Boy Blue. It is queer 
that I did that, harking back I felt odd 
about him; in any event he's napoo. Right 
now his body is down at the brigade. I've 
told you how he was so sadlike and dour. 
Well, only yesterday afternoon as we sat 
on the dugout swapping confidences, me to 
him about my hopes and plans of a home, 
etc., when I get back. He told me what, I 
expect, was the reason why he wasn't more 
cheerful. He told me a lot about his early 
life. His father, it seems, was never fond 
of him because he wasn't aggressive enough. 
He said he was like his mother, of whom 
he had a picture. His father always nagged 
at him, much to his mother's disgust, and 
he told me how when war broke out his 
father harped at him to join up, although 
it was against his mother's wish, while he 
himself evinced no desire to do so, in fact 
he said, "I'm no soldier at all. I hate this 
damned business." I guess I'm like him 
too. Well anyway, finally after as much 
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jibing as he could stand, he enlisted. He 
went on as we smoked to tell how different 
his parents were, mother mild, gentle, the 
father pugnacious, vindictive. "I'll not for- 
get the night I left before we sailed; the 
old man said, 'If you don't come home with 
a V. C. you're no son of mine,' but mother 
just cried and kissed me." Every letter 
from his mother told him how worried she 
was for his safety and of the oft repeated 
prayer to keep him for her. Well I sup- 
pose it got on his nerve, it wasn't wise of 
her I know, and I am thankful you're not 
worrying about me, or if you are, not tell- 
ing me so. Anyway he would feel unhappy 
about her. I also told him about you and 
me, in fact we almost reached an under- 
standing, a common ground. Now I guess 
I've got to write to her. That's going to 
be hard. One of the hardest things we have 
to do, particularly if you like the one who 
went. I never liked him, but Kismet is a 
strange being to bring us nearer than ever 

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before, a few hours ago. Then this. So 
when I finish this I've got to tell her what 
I can. How after the shoot the Huns 
started a minnie bombardment, that's when 
it got him, and do you know that when I 
helped put him on a stretcher to take him 
to a trench railway, near by a flare went up, 
and he was smiling, smiling in death, 
caused by concussion — not a mark on him, 
but every nerve centre paralysed instanta- 
neously — smiling in death, as I never saw 
him smile in life. While the white flare 
burned bright I looked, and as we started 
to the head of the rail through the mud, 
those lines of Eugene Field's came back: 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 
And sturdy and staunch he stands, 
And the little tin soldier is red with rust, 
While his musket moulds in his hands. 

Time was when the little toy dog was new 
And the soldier passing fair, 
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For that was the time when Little Boy Blue, 
Kissed them and put them there. 

So whole I did a double tour last night be- 
cause he was gone, ever came the thought, 
as I remembered his story and the mother's 
picture, that perhaps in that far-off home a 
mother whom I've got to tell more to than 
the official telegram will, will be saying 
these lines. 

I'll try and go to brigade to-morrow to 
see him buried, so I can assure her that, as 
Brooks said, In the corner of some foreign 
field "that is forever England" the gentle 
little boy like herself sleeps. What I 
started out to write is all forgotten, so will 
close, 

Love, 

Billy. 



[121] 



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